Unspoken
by Lirazel
Summary: You think of the one thing you never learned, not really, though you’d thought the lesson mastered long ago.  [Hermione, Ron, and all the things left unsaid] [HBP]


Unspoken

You think of the one thing you never learned, not really, though you'd thought the lesson mastered long ago. (Hermione, Ron, and all the things left unsaid) (HBP)

_A/N: Because, yes, Ron did and said a whole lot of dumb, immature, inconsiderate things in Half-Blood Prince. But I don't think he's entirely to blame, and I don't think Hermione does, either._

_Disclaimer: They don't belong to me._

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"_The only sins are words unspoken…"_

— "_Words Unspoken," Supertramp_

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It's an old adage, almost a cliché by now, that it's the things you don't say that you'll regret most. You've heard it a thousand times, and you thought you learned it well; after all, you've had the most perfect examples imaginable.

When you're with your parents, in that house that hasn't been home for years, the one you've spent less and less time in as the years pass, your mum can't stop saying she loves you. Every time you enter a room, every time you leave one, nearly every time she looks at you—and she's always looking at you, as though trying to commit you to memory completely—the words burst from her mouth as though she can't help it, as though the thing she wants most in the world is for you to hear them, to believe them, to absorb them, to carry her love with you into dangers she can't begin to imagine. It breaks your heart, every time you hear the desperate words.

Dad is more reserved, perhaps. He tells you he loves you as often as any good father tells any daughter, and you treasure every occasion. But the gift he truly gives you is his pride: again and again, he tells you how proud of you he is, how mature you are, how intelligent and kind-hearted, how quickly you're growing into the woman he dreamed you would be.

This is the only reason you can leave them. You store away each word from their lips in a secret place in your heart, and you bring them out on dark and cold nights to keep you warm. Their words, words, words.

If they did not speak them—even if you knew that were true, knew they loved and were proud of you—you could never leave them. It's the words that give you the strength to walk away.

This is what you're thinking of now as you stand at the foot of the bed, surrounded by a mass of red hair and freckles punctuated by a pair of glasses and a scar, and stare down at Ron. You think of the one thing you never learned, not really, though you'd thought the lesson mastered long ago.

Were he awake and not paler than the sheets with garish freckles screaming against the white of his skin, were he not breathing so shallowly that he can't even snore (you've always known Ron snores; Ron couldn't possibly not snore; he wouldn't be Ron if he didn't), were he not _so close to dying_, he would laugh at you for thinking what you are.

_Hermione, you know everything in the whole wide world. You've learned everything there is to learn. And you're worried about this one little thing that slipped through the cracks?_

Yes, Ron. Because this is the one thing that matters.

You're holding onto the bedstead so hard that the metal is biting into your hands. When you finally gain the strength to stand on your feet without its support, you'll have harsh red lines intersecting the life line and the heart line. You don't feel the cut of the metal, though, because your mind and heart and soul aren't in your body anymore and haven't been for some time. They're in his big, rough, awkward, strong, Quidditch-blistered, ink stained hands, throbbing with life and hope and healing, sending all of your love through him in hopes it will heal him. In hopes he'll forgive you.

You need his forgiveness, for you've wronged him terribly. All this time, you've been blaming him for the rift, the chasm, this most painful thing in your life. You've been blaming him for the few times you broke down and let yourself cry over something as silly as a boy (_not just any boy: the only boy_). You've been thinking him immature and cowardly and proud and cataloguing all the things he could have said or done that would have let things end up as you both knew they should be.

Now, though, you realize that maybe you're to blame, too. All of the things you've thought of him over these past few months are true—he's been immature and spineless and proud and he hasn't taken responsibility. But then, all those things could be said about you, too.

Because now you finally understand.

You didn't have to tell him that you love him. You didn't have to tell him that you can't imagine anyone being as impossibly perfect as he is. You didn't have to tell him that you want to wake up beside him every day for the rest of your life.

You just had to tell him…_him_.

You didn't say anything wrong. You just didn't say anything right, either. You didn't _say_ anything at all.

You never told him that you knew that he was smart underneath the adorable dunce act—you nagged him to apply himself. You never told him that the thing you love to see most in the world is his grin—you chastised him for not being serious enough in these times. You never told him that you were certain that if he just calmed down, he could be as good of a Quidditch player as he wanted to be—you took his fate into your own hands and later credited his success to the Felix Felicis. You never told him that he was every bit as brave as Harry, braver, perhaps, because he's chosen his road and Harry's had his thrust upon him—you poured all of your encouragement and support into Harry because you thought the world needed him more. You never told him that the only time you feel safe and alive is when you're standing back to back with him, facing down something you know you could overcome through your combined strength—you took it for granted that he would always be there.

Only you can't take that for granted anymore, not when he's lying there looking like death. He's fragile, now, and that's the one thing you've never thought him.

If he were awake, he would laugh at you. Because you're mentally making a list, though this one is more important than the hundreds you've made for him and Harry over the years—homework to complete this week; chapters to study for N.E.W.T.s; books to get from the library; classes to take if they want to be Aurors—even more, perhaps, than lists of possible Death Eaters or defensive spells that will come in useful.

When they finally send you back to Gryffindor Tower, you don't go to sleep as you've been told, though you're so tired and scared and relieved that you can barely think. Instead, you take out a scrap of parchment and a quill.

_Things I Won't Forget To Say:_

_1. I love you…_

_ --_

_End.  
_


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